I'll do anything you want, Professor
by Savannah-Vee
Summary: Cocky jock Edward needs to pass notoriously strict prof Carlisle's class in order to stay in school-so he cheats. Carlisle finds out and, determined to break Edward of his smug attitude and humiliate him, he makes a few demands...


**A/N: This was supposed to be my Twikink entry from ages ago. I didn't get it done in time and so didn't submit it. I now have quite a bit of free time so I thought I'd just finish it off. It's not complete here though, there'll be one more chapter. We had to pick a prompt and then write a story based on that prompt. The prompt I chose is below. Anyway, hope you like! :)  
**

_**Cocky jock Edward needs to pass notoriously strict prof Carlisle's class in order to stay in school-so he cheats. Carlisle finds out and, determined to break Edward of his smug attitude and humiliate him, demands that Edward jerk off in front of him-and the demands escalate from there (ultimately ending with fucking). Edward can't refuse or Carlisle will turn him for cheating.**_

* * *

His jeans are practically half way down his ass.

And he's not wearing any underwear.

I know this because when he pushes his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his scuffed converse heels, his grey t-shirt rises up a little.

It's about two sizes too small for him.

And when it rises up I can see tufts of his brown pubic hair poking out of the top of his waistband.

Edward Masen slings his backpack higher up his shoulder with one hand. He runs his fingers through his tousled reddish-brown hair with the other.

"This isn't your work, Edward."

He knows what I mean because his pale face reddens.

But he says, "What do you mean this isn't my work?"

I put the essay down on my desk. Clasp my hands and look him right in his olive coloured eyes.

"I mean you didn't write it."

His jaw flexes once.

He doesn't say anything.

"Passing off someone else's work as your own is plagiarism," I continue. "And, as you know, we take plagiarism very seriously."

He huffs. Shoves one hand in the pocket of his low slung jeans.

"You could be expelled for this."

He scoffs.

His nonchalance irritates me. "Is there _nothing _you want to say about this, Edward?"

He keeps our eyes locked. Stares at me with his usual, 'don't give a fuck' expression.

"Can you prove it?" he says.

"Excuse me?"

"Can you prove I didn't write it?"

I have to take a deep breath before I can answer him. "Yes."

He actually rolls his eyes at me. "How?"

I sit back in my leather chair in smug satisfaction.

"I spoke with Angela Webber. She says that it was _she_ who wrote this essay. She says you asked her to write it for you."

A tinge of colour blooms on his face again but he just shrugs. "Can _she _prove it?"

"She says the word document is still saved on her computer."

"Bitch," he mutters. He pulls his hand out of his pocket and ruffles his hair. "Alright," he says. "She helped me write it. We, sort of, worked on it together, in her dorm. That's why she has it saved on her computer."

"That's not what she says."

"Fuck what she says." He takes a step towards my desk and sighs. Lowers his voice into a half-whisper as he says, "Look, Professor, she and I were" – he raises his eyebrows and smirks – "_you know_. And I broke it off with her. She's only saying this shit 'cause she's mad at me."

I take in another deep breath through my nose to calm myself. "Regardless, we have a zero tolerance policy on plagiarism here at UW and –"

"Aw, _c'mon_ –"

"_And_ you submitted this piece of work as solely your own. That is plagiarism. Besides, it wasn't supposed to be group work."

His jaw flexes again. I can hear that his teeth are clenched tight when he says, "Ok, so let me write it again. On my own."

"I can't allow that."

He takes another step closer to my desk, and his thighs are pressing into it now. "Why not?"

"Like I said, this is something we take very seriously."

He's breathing hard. "Ok, so what happens now?"

"I report it. We have a meeting and come to a decision. You might be allowed to resubmit the essay but you'll get a zero on it anyway. Or, you could fail this academic year and have to retake it, or, worst case scenario, you could be expelled from the university."

He drops his backpack on the floor and slams his palms down on my desk. His face is so close I can smell the clean scent of shampoo on the lock of hair that falls over his brow.

I lean back.

"I can't fail this year," he says, shaking his head. "Or get kicked out. I'll lose my scholarship and my parents'll kill me. Don't report it. I'll do the essay again, extra assignments... whatever. I'll do anything you want me to do, Professor, just... don't report it. Please."

It's the first time I've seen Edward Masen show that he actually gives a shit about something.

I stare into his green eyes for a long moment, in surprise.

"Alright," I hear myself saying.

He straightens up his tall, slender body and blinks at me, equally surprised. "Really?"

"Really," I say, even though I know this is wrong on many levels, even though I know that if anyone finds out it could cost me my job, my career. "I'm gonna give you a chance, Edward. I won't report it."

He's wide-eyed now. Incredulous. I guess my reputation as a hard-ass precedes me.

"Shit. Thanks. Thank you, Professor."

He picks up his backpack from my office floor and hoists it up his shoulder. When he does I get another flash of pubic hair and hip bone and happy trail and I have to look away.

"You can go," I say.

He hesitates.

"So… that's it? You're not gonna report it?"

"No."

"Should I write the essay again, or what?"

I glance up at him from under my eyebrows. "I'll let you know."

He raises a questioning eyebrow. "Ok?"

When he turns around and saunters out of my office I shamelessly ogle his ass.

Then I get up from my desk.

My erection strains against my pants as I walk over to the door and lock it.

Then, like so many other days, I sit back down at my desk, pull down my pants and underwear...

And think about Edward Masen.

I grab my cock and my hand moves, leisurely, up and down the shaft, as I think abouthis dishevelled hair. I feel it sifting through my fingertips when I run my fingers through my own.

I get faster as I think about his handsome face; I circle the head of my cock as I picture his green eyes, his mouth. I taste the hint of coffee and mint on _his_ bottom lip when I lick my own.

Cupping my balls, I continue jerking off, thinking about the lack of underwear under his jeans. The scent of his shampoo still lingers in my office's stagnant air – or maybe I'm imagining that too.

And there's something else to think about:

"_I'll do anything you want me to do, Professor..."_

The context of his words is irrelevant.

Because now I see Edward Masen on his knees, staring into my eyes as he says, "I'll do anything you want me to do, Professor," before taking my cock deep into his mouth.

I come into my hand with a low groan.

~o0o~

I sit staring at the essay, my mind drifting.

He didn't write it. It was obvious he didn't write it as soon as I started reading it.

Edward Masen is only passing my class because he'll lose his basketball scholarship if he doesn't. All his previous work has been the bare minimum needed to pass. This essay is an A grade.

The boy had the audacity to ask someone else to write a paper for him that is worth fifty percent of his final grade, and he actually thought he could get away with it, that I wouldn't notice.

And he basically admitted that he was sleeping with Angela Webber so she would agree to write it for him.

Which means he basically whored himself for an essay.

_Edward Masen is a whore..._

Luckily, a knock on my office door interrupts that train of thought.

"Come in."

_Un_luckily, the person at the door is none other than Masen himself.

Which just reinstates the train of thought.

"Can I talk to you for a sec, Professor?" he says.

I pretend to be busy, shuffling sheets of paper around my desk. "Make it quick."

"I was just wondering about this whole... essay misunderstanding thing."

I don't look up from my pretend work. "There _was_ no misunderstanding."

"Ok. Whatever." I can hear the eye-roll in his tone. "But you're not gonna snitch on me, right?"

"If by 'snitch on you' you mean, 'report you for plagiarism' then no."

"Great. So what's the catch?"

I chance a glance at him. "Excuse me?"

"Well, it's been, like, three days now and you haven't told me what I need to do. You know, in return."

I give up trying to look busy, because the boy is making this too easy for me. It's almost as if he _wants _me to –

"What do you think you need to do, Edward?" I ask him.

He looks confused. "Um. Write the essay again? Maybe do some extra assignments...?" He trails off as I shake my head.

He frowns. "Ok... So... what do you want me to do?"

The idea was already here. In fact, from the moment Edward Masen had told me he'd do anythingI wanted him to do, the idea had been a sordid seed sown into the soil of my subconscious.

And it had only taken a day for that seed to sprout.

Only one day of me debating with myself about whether or not I should do it, whether or not I _could_ do it. Only one day of wondering if I could get away with it. Because the way I see it, my integrity as a respected college professor had gone to shit the moment I agreed to not turn him in for plagiarism, anyway.

And his words are practically a gateway – he's made it easy for me to get my request into the conversation.

So I do it.

I say it:

"I want you to masturbate. Right here. While I watch."

For a moment he just stares at me, unblinking.

Then, when my words actually sink in: "_What_?"

I lean back in my chair. Repeat my request without breaking eye contact with him.

"You're fucking kidding me, right?"

I stand up, walk over to the door and lock it.

He watches my movements with a gaping mouth and wide eyes. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

I sit back down and wait.

He begins backing away, taking clumsy backward strides until his back hits the door, then he fumbles for the door handle. He turns it once, even though he just saw me lock the damn thing.

"You're sick," he says. "You're a fucking pervert."

"You don't have to do it," I say, calmly. "I can just turn you in. You fail this year. Lose your scholarship. It's your choice."

He takes his hand off the door handle. Grabs a tuft of his hair in his fist.

"You can't do this."

I don't respond.

There's a long silence before he looks at me again. And from his sudden smug half smile I can predict what he's going to say.

"You turn me in and I'll tell everyone. I'll tell everyone what you just asked me to do. Tell everyone what a dirty old man you really are."

I smirk. "Is that so?"

"Yeah."

I shrug. "Go ahead. It'll be your word against mine. And who do you think they're more likely to believe? A failing student who got caught cheating, desperate not to get kicked out of college and lose his scholarship, or a respected professor who has been teaching here for over ten years?"

He thinks about it.

Then he starts shaking his head. "You can't do this."

"Why not, Edward? You said you'd do _anything_,remember?"

"You're sick."

I sigh. "I'm getting tired of the name calling. It's your choice: you do what I requested, I let you hand in another essay and you get away with cheating, or, you don't do it, I turn you in and you fail this year."

He looks at me for a long time. And when he drops his eyes and his face turns a dark shade of red, I know he's going to do it.

"Alright," he whispers. "I'll do it, you sick fuck."

I already feel myself getting aroused by the mere promise in his words.

I lean back in my chair. Adjust myself. "Whenever you're ready."

He hesitates. Pushes a hand through his messy hair. Then another. Then both at the same time. Then he dumps his backpack on the floor. Again, runs his hands through his hair, his lifted arms and too-small t shirt revealing the line of hair trailing from his navel to his pubes.

When he notices where my gaze is he quickly drops his arms and blushes again.

After another minute of his fingers hesitating around the crotch of his jeans he mutters, looking at me under his eyebrows, "I don't know how to start."

I'm already hard. His surprising bashfulness is a huge turn on.

"Just... do it how you'd do it in your bedroom. Pretend I'm not here."

"I can't."

"Well, then, how about you start by pulling down your pants."

His fingers glide over his zipper. They leave his pants and go back up to his hair. "Fuck," he says.

Then, as if ripping off a band aid, he quickly unbuttons his jeans, zips down his flies, and because he's not wearing any underwear when he pulls his jeans down and they fall around his ankles –

There he is.

Edward Masen stands before me, baring the part of his body I've imagined countless times.

And he's half hard.

His hands start to hover over his cock when I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

I glance up at his face and he's still blushing. He doesn't meet my gaze.

"Move your hands."

He does, with reluctance.

"You're aroused," I say to him.

He doesn't answer.

But even as I stare at it, I can _see _him growing harder.

I reach into my drawer and take out a bottle of lube. "Here." Toss it at him.

He catches it with one hand. Looks at me after he realises what it is.

"You have _lube _in your drawer?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"You've done this to someone else?" he asks, appalled.

"Of course not. I have lubricant because _I _use it occasionally."

His cock is now standing up, fully hard. It's thick and lengthy.

He looks at me when he grips it in one hand.

I have a hand on my own cock, rubbing myself through my pants. "What?"

"I can't just... you know. I need... stimulation."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, whenever I jerk off I'm watching porn, or I'm watching someone touch themselves too, or I'm on the phone with someone..." He flushes as he starts running his hand up the length of his cock. "Just... talk to me. It doesn't have to be dirty or anything... I just... need _something. _Even if it's just your voice."

"You like my voice, Edward?"

He nods and his hand begins stroking faster.

Edward Masen likes my voice. This new development has me squirming in my seat with arousal.

"Why?"

"I don't know. It's" – a gasp – "It's sexy. Older man sexy, you know."

I just watch him, my mouth slightly agape, because Edward Masen masturbating is the sexiest thing I've seen in a long time.

He takes a few steps forward until his thighs press into my desk. One of his hands hold on to the table for balance as he gets faster.

"Keep talking to me," he mutters, his eyes barely open now.

"You think my voice is sexy."

"Yeah."

"Just my voice?"

He opens his eyes a little more and looks at me from under his low lids but doesn't answer.

We stare at each other as he continues jacking off, his hand never once faltering in its rhythm.

I look down at his cock, rock hard, shiny at the tip.

"You're enjoying this."

He groans.

"You like being watched."

His eyes roll back as he nods.

"You have a crush on me."

He doesn't answer to that.

I unzip my own pants and start brazenly stroking myself in time with his strokes.

He looks at my hand on my cock. Looks at my face. "Jesus Christ," he mutters. "I can't believe this is happening."

Neither can I.

I watch him in silence for a bit, not touching myself now. Because it's taking all of my control to stop myself from coming. And I want him to come first.

His eyes are closed now and he's moaning softly, biting his bottom lip.

I want to reach out and touch his face, trail my fingers over his bottom lip. _Bite _on his bottom lip. But that would be taking things further than I intend to go.

"Open your eyes."

His eyes snap open almost immediately.

"Have you ever thought about me while masturbating?"

His face flushes a deep pink.

I smirk. "I'll take that as a yes." I watch him for a bit without saying anything.

And I don't think I can contain myself anymore.

So I tell him, "I want you to come."

He groans. "Jesus. I thought you'd never ask."

I blink at him in surprise. "You were waiting for me to tell you to come?"

He nods.

And that's it. I can't hold in it any longer. This boy is a hundred times sexier than my imagination could conjure up. It's like... like he _knows _what I want, what I like.

I come into my hand after two quick pumps. He comes immediately after, and Christ, he's loud. He's so loud I have to jump up from my chair and clamp my clean palm over his mouth to muffle him.

And he's messy too. Apparently he hasn't mastered the art of coming into his hand. Splatters of his ejaculate are all over the papers on my desk.

I _should be_ annoyed about it.

He's breathing heavily when I take my hand off his mouth, leaning forward with his palms on my desk and his head bowed.

I clean myself up with a few wipes. Clean up my desk.

He looks up while I do. "I'm... I'm sorry. I couldn't..."

"Don't worry about it." I hand him a few wipes. "Here."

"Thanks," he mutters.

He cleans himself up, pulls his pants back up, picks up his backpack. And then he's just standing in front of my desk, red-faced again, avoiding my eyes.

I have to admit, it's slightly awkward now that we're both no longer aroused.

I get up and unlock the door, sit back down at my desk.

"Alright," I say to him. "You have until next Monday to hand in the essay."

He nods but doesn't make any attempt to leave.

Until I tell him, "You can go."

~o0o~


End file.
